Hollow
by ApprenticeofDoyle
Summary: After a fight between the Winchester brothers, cruel words are thrown and harsh truths come to light that have Sam wondering if there really is something keeping him from connecting from everyone else, something wrong with him- and the realization might tear him apart. One-shot. Sam!whumpage. Guilty!Dean.


**Sorry if it's too melodramatic, haha. Sam whumpage, basically, the whole time**

**Hollow -** _SPN One-Shot_

Dean slams the door on his way out, hard enough to reverberate through the air and bounce off the walls of the bunker. Sam flinches, but his expression becomes blank as Dean's last words echo relentlessly in his mind.

_ 'You wanna know why people don't get close to you, Sam? Wanna know why I'm the one people turn to for help, to turn when they need somebody? It's because you're hollow, Sam. You're fucking hollow. You make someone start to care about you, with you goddamn sensitive eyes and your sob stories, and at first they like you okay. Nothing wrong with you that they see at first. But then they see this...this _empt_y inside of you. Once they break down that wall of personality you've got built up around you, they see on the inside that you're like an echo- an echo of somebody who died a long time ago. Sure, you can laugh, and cry, and feel, but deep down it's like you do what you do because you should, not because you want to, not because it makes you happy. Like you try your best to feel, but in your heart it's like you're trying too hard. You're detached, you're disconnected. That's why you can't have deep relationships with people, that's why people don't turn to you. That's why people like me better, identify with me better, trust me more. Because you can't love what's empty, Sammy.' _

Because you can't love what's empty.

The words don't hurt him like a slap or a punch. They crush him, slowly, scraping and clawing in his heart like a thousand nails. His eyes sting with tears and he clenches his fists because he can't face that truth that's staring at him in the face- the truth that had haunted him for years now. It had always hid in the corner of his mind like a stain, growing and growing until finally Dean was pissed enough to wave it in his face.

It's true. It has to be true. There's no other answer.

It was no secret that Dean had always been that one to connect with people, that he was the favorite Winchester. Before, Sam knew it was good looks, often it was. But recently it became more apparent that it was deeper than that. That Dean had that personality that people loved, that people related to. He got under people's skin, and they wanted to be his friend, wanted to be his one-night stand, wanted to fight by his side.

It's more than just petty sibling jealousy that Sam feels, more than just a bout of self-pity. He always thought it was because Dean was just likable that way- but was it possible it was more than that?

That it was because Sam wasn't?

Was there truly something off about _him?_

All of the people Sam called friends and family run through his mind like images in a slideshow- a blood-soaked, anguished slideshow as unfortunately, a great many of them weren't alive any more.

Dad is first. True, Dean was older and obedient to his father, stuck with him when Sam skipped off to college and that they used to fight like cats and dogs, but it had always been obvious who Dad respected more, talked to more. Sure, he hadn't been real heavy on the fatherly affection to either of his boys, but Dean was the golden boy- the hunter his Dad could be proud of. The last words Sam had ever said to him had been contorted in anger and he'd thought his dad was so, so goddamn selfish...

He regretted those last words to his father almost every day.

Bobby is next. The boys' second father, the one who showed the most open affection for them. To be honest with himself, it wasn't really his fault that in the time he spent with Bobby he'd been a little bit fucked up- first was his powers, next the demon's blood, he started the apocalypse and died, then he was soulless and a dick- then he finally just went crazy. Bonding with Bobby had never been real high on the to-do list with all of that shit going for him, and he'd put the old hunter through real crap. But thinking over Dean's words it became so clear. Every look he gave Dean was more kind, every gesture a little more loving. Sam'd be stupid to think Bobby didn't love him, love him like a son, and he felt that choking pain as much as his brother did when the old hunter died- Sam had loved Bobby too.

But Dean had always been Bobby's favorite.

Sam's stomach rolls as the list of names gets longer- Ellen, Jo, Ash, Pamela, Kevin, Garth, Charlie- Castiel...

It was true, that sometimes the angel's life was a bit rocky and they did fight in Purgatory together, but Cas was always there for Dean when he needed him, always did what had to be done when Dean asked. He did everything for his older brother. _We do share a more profound bond. _His voice rings through Sam's head like he was directly in front of him now. All of those times Cas ignored him, and with one word Dean had him flying right down with a "Hello, Dean." that had Sam feeling almost more hurt than angry. He remembers once when Castiel tried to hug him, an oddly affectionate gesture because the tightassed angel was glad he was back to normal...and how Sam had awkwardly refused it. Sam wonders why he did that- why the hell he was so averted to the idea of getting close to someone other than Dean.

_ Is it because I _am _empty? _

Sure, there'd been a few people along the road Sam had but Dean didn't- Amelia, for example. They'd had something good, something real...but it wasn't true enough. Obviously wasn't meant to be. And...who else? Fuckin' _Ruby? _That psycho bitch manipulated him for months and dragged him into that demon's blood business in the first place- it's fucking _awesome _that she's the only person who comes to mind when it came to meaningful connection. There were so few people Sam had connected with before something happened that separated them- like Jess. Sweet, wonderful Jess. Maybe she was with the Sam that wasn't hollow- with the Sam that hadn't died yet, inside.

Why was it that Sam didn't have closer friends, have the web of caring people that Dean did? They met the same people, fought for the same things, yet still Sam was that one left with a little bit more loneliness. A little bit more heartache. Of course, Dean had always been that guy to count on. That loyal Winchester boy who always stood up for his friends.

_ I'm the one that fucks up all the time. I'm the one that started the apocalypse, the one who betrayed Dean and went crazy because I couldn't handle my hallucinations._

I'm the...empty one.

Sam tries to fight the crippling numbness that sweeps over him, and he gets stiffly to his feet. The bunker is cold and empty, the way a place always is after a fight takes place inside. Like every drop of heat has been whisked out with the anger and when Dean left, all the warmth did too. Sam's footsteps are heavy and clunking across the wood floor, and his knees feel like rubber. He doesn't know or care what his expression looks like- it could've been pain or fear or horror or nothing at all. It doesn't matter. At first he wobbles aimlessly towards the nearest hallway, vision blurring and limbs like lead, and he fixates on a target where each step should land because if he doesn't he's going to collapse pathetically on the ground. He stumbles over to the kitchen, where the end of the hallway meets, and feels his eye drawn towards Dean's liquor cabinet.

_Bingo._

For a singular moment, he hesitates. _Would this really fix anything? _his logical mind asks. But then his resolve snaps. _Fuck logic. It's gray and cold and tired. Just like me. _He stomps over, yanks open the drawer and pulls out Dean's best scotch. The golden liquor sloshes around slowly and he pops off the lid without an drop of remorse.

"Just you and me tonight," he whispers, his voice cracking with bitterness. "Just you and me."

xXXx

Sam doesn't know how many hours have passed before Dean comes back, apparently over his burst of anger. He doesn't realize the magnitude of what he said in a thoughtless rage, doesn't realize how much Sam has taken it to heart.

_Why wouldn't he? After all, I'm too hollow to feel it, aren't I?_

"Sam?" he calls, his voice so, so loud over the slow, monotonous buzz in Sam's ears. Eyelids half closed, his eyes don't even drift to the door when he sees Dean stomp in through his very foggy peripherals. He doesn't have to look to know Dean is over his mood- he wouldn't have come back if he wasn't. But honestly, in his drunken stupor Sam wouldn't give two shits whether Dean is over it or not.

"Sam, what are yo-" Dean's deep voice drops off upon seeing the empty glass bottle in his younger brother's limp hand. Sam is on the floor next to a bookshelf, his legs sprawled out in front of him like long telephone poles. His muscular arms are drooped in his lap and his back is propped up against the cool grey wall. The once full bottle of scotch is bone dry and he slowly lets the neck of the bottle go. It falls into his lap and his head droops over, eyes slamming closed.

"That bottle was full when I left," Dean says quietly. But he's being redundant...redundant..._ huh. Even when I'm drunk I use three syllable words. _

"Yeah," Sam slurs, his voice a monotone. "It- it was." He licks his lips and they taste like more scotch. Bile rises in the Winchester's throat.

"Jesus, man, that bottle was a gift from Bobby-"

Sam slams his eyelids shut. _Of course. _"Of course, of course it was a _fucking gift from Bobby." _It's not just the alcohol that makes Sam's voice a snarl now. He snaps his attention to his brother, who's looking at him with shock in his eyes. He's a little blurry but Sam knows there's pity in those eyes.

"What do you mean 'of course'?" Dean asks, his voice guarded. He knows his brother is wasted but doesn't understand how to deal with a raging Sam- Sam was usually the happy drunk, giggling like an idiot at dust or picnic tables.

_ Why the hell does he sound so defensive- he's a raging alcoholic! Why should he judge me?!_ "Of course- 'cuz you were his _favorite, _Dean!" Sam spits. He clumsily gets to his feet and wobbles over to his brother, pointing a shaking, accusatory finger at Dean. "You were his fucking favorite. You're everybody's favorite."

"Go home, Sam, you're drunk," Dean jokes poorly, at a loss with how to deal with the situation. Memories of a drunk John flicker through his mind, resurfacing faster as his younger brother's expression twists in drunken outrage. "Look, Sam, you're wasted, let's just go to bed, okay?" Dean puts a strong arm on Sam's shoulder but he jerks away, stumbling backwards. The older brother tenses, ready to catch Sam if he falls.

"Don't touch me! Don't try to- don't try sympathize with me! You don't know what- you don't know what it's-" Sam cuts off, because the urge to vomit has surged through his system. Dean, having been drunk so times before, quickly recognizes that _so-gonna-puke _look on his brother's face and grabs him by the arm, rushing him quickly to the bathroom.

Sam hardly makes it there and he collapses on his knees, his hands gripping the white porcelain toilet tightly as every drop of alcohol he consumed in the past couple of hours makes a violent comeback. Dean watches with heavy empathy as Sam pitches forward again and again as he vomits into the toilet, and soon his brother is just heaving and gasping while hot tears pour down his face.

Sam, his hands slick with sweat and throat raw with acid, fights to stop sobbing but he can't. The tears oozing out of his itchy eyes are drunken, uncontrollable and anguished. They needed to be released or else the dam would've just kept building. His mouth, tasting rotten, stumbles to find words as he feels Dean's steady and firm hand on his shoulder.

"You were right, Dean," he chokes, his throat closed up with hurt and his breathing quick and desperate. "God, you were right." He starts to wretch again as Dean shakes his head.

"About what?" Dean asks, his voice dipping in brotherly concern. Suddenly he's afraid to know.

"I- I am empty," Sam gasps out, more tears streaming down his face as another wracking sob ripples through him. He grips the toilet bowl so tight his knuckles turn white.

"Oh, Sam," Dean whispers, face contorting with remorse. _Damn it._ "Look, I was pissed, I didn't mean it-"

"You meant it or else you wouldn't have said it!" his brother cries, wiping his eyes sloppily with a jacketed arm. A wave of dizziness passes through him, making his head swim. He slumps to the side, his shaggy head banging against the white bathtub hard enough to make the black spots in his vision turn white.

Dean tries not to roll his eyes at his brother's drunk logic as he feels a bitter weight settle on him. _I am such a dick, _he thinks as he looks down sorrowfully at his brother's broken form. Sam is starting to lose consciousness but he manages to give his brother a look so full of aggrieved loneliness it feels like his heart is breaking.

"I am empty," he whispers again, his glazed red eyes rolling back into his head as darkness claims him. His jaw falls slack and his head dips forward, and he collapses to the cool floor. Dean lurches forward, grasping his little brother by the shoulders as his face wrinkles in regret. He drags his brother back into a sitting position and his head is buzzing with apologies he didn't get to say.

His voice is deep and gravelly with regret when he finally chokes the words out. "Oh, Sammy. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

**Basically my rant over how Sam needs more intimate connections! :D Please review, thanks so much for reading! XD**


End file.
